


Just Another Itch to Scratch

by Ice_Elf



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Elf/pseuds/Ice_Elf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be an easy mission: follow a mark to a pole dancing club and keep an eye on him.  Clint had thought that nothing could distract him but then <i>she</i> appeared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Itch to Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> First, thank you to black_crystal_dragon for beta-ing this fic. Your help was invaluable and very much appreciated.  
> All my pole dancing experience comes from watching youtube videoes – please forgive any inaccuracies and imposibilities.

Clint raises a hand to loosen the knot in his tie, tugging at the collar in an effort to appear more casual. He’s supposed to look like a businessman, relaxing after a long day’s work, but that’s the complete antithesis of his true purpose. The man across the stage does seem relaxed, however, and Clint tries to emulate him. It’s difficult when everything about him makes Clint’s skin crawl and his hands itch to put an arrow through his chest. Instead, one hand plays with the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, the other dangles by his side brushing against the leather briefcase that stands beside the chair. Not close enough to look suspicious while still being in arm’s reach. This is one thing that he does not want stolen. Its contents are far more precious than any electronic equipment could be.

He’s supposed to be watching the girl on stage. That’s his cover, at least, but she holds little interest for him. She’s pretty enough, he supposes, but Clint prefers his women less desperate than this one is. Her eyes are far older than her face and her body is marked from multiple pregnancies. No man and a family to feed, Clint guesses, but while others might find that sort of desperation appealing he certainly does not. He doubts there is a woman in this place who could distract him from his job. 

His mark is enjoying himself; his eyes fixated on the girl as she twists around the pole and comes to a halt, the music fading away. For a moment there is silence, the girl’s ragged breathing audible in the music’s absence. Then come shouts and cheers, applause and wolf-whistles. Money is tossed onto the stage, coins clinking against the floor. Clint leans forward to lay a few bills on the stage. He might not have appreciated the show but it helps to fit in, and the girl does need to feed her kids. 

She scrabbles to collect the cash and hurries off stage. The music starts to play again, but at a low level to allow the patrons to talk while the stage is readied for another performer. Clint sips at his whiskey, savouring the taste. He’s been nursing the same one since he arrived and unless he finishes it soon he’s going to start looking suspicious. 

The stage is swept clear, the pole is wiped clean and then the music falls silent. The lights dim then flare into sudden brightness that has Clint shielding his eyes. When the glare fades a woman stands in the shadows at the edge of the stage. The music starts immediately, not the heavy dance beat of the previous girls but something slower and sensual. The stage remains darkened as she strides up to the pole, but Clint can tell that this woman is different from the others. There is just enough light to make out long legs and firm thighs, muscles toned from years of strenuous exercise. She is dressed exactly like the other girls in a pair of hot pants and a corset, a pair of dangerously high heels on her feet but she has a confidence that is greater than any girl he has seen tonight. She moves like a predator across the stage and as she pulls herself up onto the pole Clint realises what it is that it so different about her. 

There is no desperation about her at all, or hesitation. This woman does not dance because she has to. 

The singer’s voice cuts in as she pulls herself high onto the pole, clinging to it with thighs and hands as she arches her body backwards. Her hair falls back from her face as she tilts her head back only to snap it back up as she swings herself around the pole, sliding lower and lower until she reaches the ground. She remains there for less than a beat before pulling herself up once more, placing her hand on the pole and leaning into it, hips gyrating in time to the music. 

The lights flare into brightness and he can see her clearer. Her body is just as perfect as he imagined and so achingly familiar. The hair that blocks her face from view is short and dark red, and just begging for someone to run their fingers through it. Clint scrubs his hand across his trouser leg and takes a sip of his drink, darting a tongue out to wet his lips. Then, the woman flicks her head towards him and all he can think of as her eyes meet his is how much trouble he’s in. 

Natasha. The woman he has been admiring is Natasha, and God, he’s never going to be able to look at her in the same way again. They can never spar again, that is for certain - she would only have to wrap her legs around his neck and he would be transported right back here.

He wipes his palms on his pants legs and tries to understand why she is here. Clint was certain that Fury had not mentioned her involvement, he would have remembered if he had – hands wrapping round the pole, pulling her up – and Fury would have mentioned it because he knew how well they worked together. The alternative is that Natasha somehow learnt of the mark and decided to take him out without orders – she swings her legs above her head, wrapping one around the pole before letting her hands slide free, her whole weight supported by just one leg – and that would be just like her.

Natasha’s legs spread wide, as she swings herself around the pole, and Clint’s train of thought derails. He shifts in his seat, and Natasha arches back from the pole, her legs flipping back to land on the stage. She turns her back to the pole, raising her hands above her head and sliding down into a crouch, her legs apart, her head forward and her arms raised high. She is the picture of debauchery, and Clint knows that she has the attention of every man in the room. Who would dare look elsewhere? 

She rises to her feet and turns back to the pole, wrapping her leg around it and pressing her body flush against it. Clint dares to glance past her towards his mark – for he, and not Natasha, is the reason he is here. He too is staring at her, riveted. There is a satisfied smirk on his face, and Clint knows, would know it even without having read the dossier of information on his dirtier dealings – he knows exactly the sort of man he is. Used to getting what he wants, and right now he wants Natasha. 

His hand clenches on his tumbler and he turns back to watch Natasha. She inverts herself once more, her hair falling away from her face to reveal a sultry expression, eyes hooded and lips upturned into a slight smirk, as she rotates herself around. Clint wonders if she has any idea what effect she is having on everyone here, and then realises that the answer is already clear.

Natasha has always known how men look on her, and she uses that to her full advantage. Too many men have underestimated her and found themselves in trouble because of that. 

And these men are no different, Clint doubts that they have ever seen a dancer as fit and agile as Natasha. The difference between them and him is that he knows how she has honed her muscles, and has trained with her enough to know that the dancing is just a by-product of her martial arts skill. That is the only difference. Clint knows he is just as caught up in the rhythm of her hips and the bounce of her breasts and the way she swishes her hair in time to the music. His eyes are meant to be on the target, but they haven’t been since she entered the room and it’s only because he knows that no sane man would leave and break the spell that Natasha has created that he knows his mark is still there at all. 

Natasha’s legs spread impossibly wide and she slides down the pole, turning herself so that all the patrons can share in her magic. When her gaze passes over Clint her smirk deepens and he knows that she is very aware of what she has done to him. She lands at the base of the pole, folded in on herself, just as the music comes to an end.

There is silence once more, but this one stretches on, no one willing to shatter the illusion that Natasha has put them under. Then as she pulls herself to her feet the club erupts into cheers and shouts for more, clapping and whistling. There are lecherous shouts too, some which make Clint want to find the source and rip their tongue out with his bare hands. He dares to breathe, to wet his lips and to shift in his seat in an effort to accommodate himself better. 

Natasha turns in a quick circle, acknowledging the applause while ignoring the money that is thrust towards her. She meets Clint’s eye before spinning away towards their target. Her gaze lingers on him for longer, then she turns on her heel and leaves the same way she had come. When moments later a waiter appears and hands a slip of paper to the mark, Clint drains his whiskey and sets the glass down on the table, letting his hand stray closer to his briefcase. 

His suspicions are confirmed when the man gets up and heads towards the door labelled backstage. There is no disputing his destination, and Clint finds that he does not want to even consider that. So many reasons for staying put flash through his mind, most prominent of all that Natasha can handle herself and would probably be furious if he presumed otherwise. Clint does not want to listen to reason though; he is far too gone for that. 

He ought to have stayed seated longer, but instead he pushes himself to his feet and picks up his briefcase. There is no resistance as he pushes through the backstage door. The crowds are too thick and too distracted to notice his exit. Clint is glad of that, although he doubts that his luck will remain unchanged. 

Sure enough, he has barely taken in his surroundings before being confronted by a brute. Tall and heavy set, he blocks most of the corridor from view. He holds out his hand, palm up and grunts one word.

“Pass.”

Clint slides his hand into his pocket, through the ripped seam to grasp the hilt of the small pistol he carries there. He does not pull it out immediately, hoping that the guard can sense the threat before he needs to resort to violence. 

“Sorry, pal,” he places a hand on the guard’s arm. “Can’t seem to find it, but you’ll let me through, right?” 

He takes a step forward, and the guard raises a hand to hold him back. “No pass, no entry.”

His hand rests on Clint’s chest for a moment, his intention clear, but Clint has no desire to head back to the bar.

“Yeah, I thought as much,” he replies.

His grip tightens on the guard’s arm, and he spins him round, slamming him up against the wall. He wrenches the arm a little further up the guard’s back, twisting the wrist until the guard lets out a weak mewl of pain. The gun is pulled free of his pocket, the safety disengaged and the nozzle pressed into the base of his skull.

The guard is a cliché, trembling and muttering pleas for his life. He’s just security, he doesn’t know the combination for the safe, he’s got a family. In the end Clint just presses his gun further into the man’s neck.

“Shut up,” he hisses, slackening his grip on the man’s arm. The man complies immediately “I don’t want your money. The last girl, where is she?”

“The... the Black Widow?” the man stammers, and Clint quashes a smile, of course she would be using that name. No one would ever remark on it here. “She’s in with a client; you can’t just go barging in there.”

Clint tightens his grasp again and the man gasps.

“Try me,” Clint hisses. He’s wasting far too much time. Already his imagination is working in overdrive and he does not want to imagine Natasha together with that creep. His fingers bite into the guard’s wrist.

“Please!” the man cries out. “God, she’s at the end of the hall. The last door on the right.”

Clint nods, and releases the guard, taking a step back from him. The man crumples to his knees, rubbing at his wrist. He’s pitiful, and Clint can tell that he was hired for his brawn and not for his brute personality. Stepping over the guard, Clint glances down the corridor and is glad to see that there are no other witnesses.

“Don’t follow,” he warns. “If anyone asks – I had a pass.”

He strides along the corridor, sliding the gun back into its holster. There is no time to open the briefcase and retrieve his bow but he does not think he’ll need it today. This will be quick work, especially with Natasha’s assistance. Her motives may be different, but their aim is the same: to interrogate the mark and bring him in for further questioning if required.

If he knows Natasha as well as he believes he does, she will have dealt with this in one of two ways. First, that he will enter the room to find the situation resolved, the mark out cold on the floor, or second, that she will have continued her seduction. Clint knows which of the two visions he would prefer, but also which is more likely. His stomach twists unpleasantly, hands balling into fists at his side.

A well placed kick sends the door flying open and it crashes down into the dressing room. Natasha glances across to him, her eyebrows raised in silent surprise as behind her the mark crumples to his knees, one hand clutching at his groin and his face twisted into a mask of pain.

It isn’t enough to prevent Clint from storming across the room and grabbing the man’s collar. He yanks him to his feet and slams him against the wall, his head snapping back with a bang. His fingers balls into a fist and he pulls it back, intent on throwing a punch, but then another hand closes over his.

“Fury said to question him, not to kill him.”

Natasha. Her voice amused or irritated. Clint can’t tell. But it does draw his attention to the mark who hangs limply in his grasp, his eyes unfocussed. He is unconscious and now of little use. He crumples to the ground when Clint releases him and turns to face Natasha. She’s exchanged the hot pants for a mini skirt but otherwise looks exactly as she had done on stage: confident, sensual and deadly. He swallows twice, trying to find his voice. When he does speak, it sounds strange, wrong and he hopes that she doesn’t notice. 

“What the hell are you doing here, Natasha?”

She smiles, her eyebrows rising even higher. “I’m following orders. What are you doing here? You were supposed to be keeping an eye on all of them. Did you not trust me to deal with him myself?”

The amusement is all but gone now. The emotion in her voice is not quite scorn, but there is an edge of disappointment. 

“I know how well you fight,” Clint snaps. 

Natasha folds her arms across her chest and tilts her head to one side. That was not good enough, her posture states, and Clint knows that he has no choice but to tell her more, though he does not wish to. 

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

Natasha smirks. “I was pole dancing, Clint. How did you expect him to look at me?”

She takes a step towards him, placing her hands on his hips and pressing herself flush against him. He can feel her warmth through their clothing. 

“Don’t think I didn’t see you looking at me too.”

Her breath is cool against his ear, her words little more than a breathy whisper. Something touches the shell, and it takes Clint a moment to realise that it’s Natasha’s mouth. 

“Natasha.” His voice is a strangled gasp. “We’ve still got to interrogate him.”

He can’t think why though. He can’t think past Natasha. Her lips on his ear, jaw, lips, her hands on his hips and the swell of her breasts pressed tight against his chest.

Natasha lifts her leg, curling it around his thigh. “Yes,” she murmurs, “But he’s hardly going to answer any time soon.”

Clint pulls back a strangled moan, for she’s hot against him. 

Her lips caress the corner of his mouth before pressing firmly, insistently against his. She draws the bottom lip into her mouth, teeth nipping at the tender flesh. It is too much, and Clint can no longer pretend that he is not interested. He seizes Natasha’s waist, turns them both around and pushes her up against the wall. It shudders at the impact – Clint was not as gentle as he would have been with another girl but he knows that he need not hold back with Natasha, nor would she want him too. 

The kiss is bruising and passionate, their tongues twining and striving for dominance, teeth clashing and nipping and lips bruising. Natasha’s legs are wrapped around his thighs, her hips canting forward and creating a friction that already has Clint so close to the edge. Her hands rest on his hips, fingers burrowing between layers of clothing to pluck his shirt from his waistband and find flesh. 

Clint’s presses forward, pinning Natasha firmly against the wall. One hand rests on the curve of her ass as the other slides between their bodies. Natasha’s skirt is pushed up to her waist, and it’s easy – so easy – to slip his hand between her legs and to brush his fingers against her clit. She’s wet and the brief touch has her breath coming in a quick, harsh gasp. Her hand clenches on his hip and she rakes her nails across his flesh.

Natasha turns her head to one side, breaking the kiss and Clint moves his lips to her jaw, and down her neck. His teeth nip at the tender flesh of her throat as he presses his lips to her pulse point. She pulls her hand from his side, reaching up to slide a thumb and forefinger underneath her corset and pulls out a small, foil wrapped packet. She places it between her teeth as she reaches down between them, batting Clint’s hand out of the way and unzipping his trousers, easing his cock free of his briefs. The cool air is harsh on his hardened flesh, and then Natasha’s hand is on him, fingers curling around the length, thumb circling the head and brushing away drops of pre-cum. 

She releases him to tear open the condom wrapper, rolling it over his cock in one practiced move. Then her lips meet his again, and the kiss is open-mouthed, messy and furious. Clint’s fingers clench, sinking into Natasha’s bare ass and her hands rise to his shoulders. She pulls herself up his body and sinks down again onto his cock. 

“Fuck, Natasha,” he grunts as the wet heat surrounds him. 

Her smirk is devilish as she skims her hands down his chest, and pushes them up beneath his shirt once more, and, God, he doesn’t want her to ever stop touching him again. All he can feel is Natasha surrounding him, legs clenched tight round his waist, hands resting on his shoulder blades and her hot, tight cunt around his cock. 

Then she pulls herself up again, coming down at an angle that draws a long, moan from her lips. Clint’s breath is coming in short gasps as Natasha begins to ride him, fast and hard. It’s been a long time since Clint has had anyone with the stamina and strength to set such a punishing pace, but Natasha is a talented lover. 

She is unashamedly vocal, breathy gasps and moans that must be audible through the walls. Her head has fallen back to rest against the wall, and her eyes are clenched shut. The lines of her throat are exposed and Clint presses his lips to the hollow at the base, drawing teeth and tongue along her collar bone. It draws out a cry which fades into a whisper that might be his name.

The pace is too frantic to last long, and Clint is already on the edge from Natasha’s routine. He suspects that she was also turned on by the voyeuristic gaze of the crowd, or it would never have come to this. Her orgasm hits first, her body contracting around him as she lets out a long, carnal cry, her fingernails raking down his back. He is only vaguely aware of the sharp pain. His whole world has shrunk to him and Natasha and nothing else can penetrate it. 

She continues riding him through her orgasm, her cries of pleasure urging him closer and closer to his own climax. It comes upon him in a surge, and his body shudders, his head falling forward to rest on Natasha’s shoulder. 

“Natasha!” her name spills from his lips before he can prevent himself and he instantly regrets it. It makes the whole encounter too personal, and this relationship was never meant to go beyond colleagues. 

Clint lifts his head from Natasha’s shoulder and meets her eyes. Wordlessly, she slides off him, lowering her legs to the floor and putting a step or two between them. Clint wants to reach out to her and draw her back in and to never let her out of his arms again. But he doesn’t.

Natasha eases her skirt down and crosses the room to a dressing table. She takes up a box of tissues, taking a couple before tossing the rest to him. Clint catches it one handed, and cleans himself up, easing the condom from his spent cock and tossing it and the tissues into the trash can. When he has zipped up his trousers, he turns back to Natasha and finds her looking far more in control than he feels. 

She appears as if nothing has changed, but Clint is certain that things can’t possibly be the same after tonight. All at once he knows why Fury forbids fraternisation between agents. It causes confusion and distraction and they would get people killed. It’s a cold hard truth, but Clint knows that there is no changing it now. He is never going to be able to think of Natasha without remembering tonight. 

“Where do we go from here, Natasha?” 

Natasha looks right at him, from where she has crouched beside the forgotten mark. Her forehead crinkles in confusion.

“We wait for him to wake, then we interrogate him” she explains, slowly, as if he had taken leave of his senses. 

And then Clint knows that Natasha has already pushed the night’s events to the back of her mind. To her, nothing has changed; what passed between them was a base need, an itch that needed scratching and nothing more.

If their friendship is to survive then Clint knows he has to do the same, because Natasha will never entertain thoughts of a repeat performance. 

The mark groans, starting to come round, and Clint steps in closer. He wants to get this over with quickly. There’s a bottle of whisky back home and it has his name on it. Perhaps, by tomorrow, the memories of tonight will have faded enough for him to view them as Natasha does: just an itch that needed scratching.


End file.
